I Would Be Quite the Catch in Prison

There I would be, the very first day of prison. I'm nervous and excited. Will I make friends? What if the other guys make fun of me? Will the food be good? Will my parents remember to pick me up when I leave?

I step out of the bus slowly, searched for the second time that day, and then the warden comes out and intimidates us.

Finally, we're escorted to our cells. As we walk through the prison in a single-file line, all the current prisoners turn and stare at us. They've been waiting for this moment. They've been expecting us. I'm sure it's the highlight of all their days. Their weeks, probably.

They shout things out, commenting on all of us. We try to ignore it, but it's hard to ignore someone threatening to make you their "personal sperm filing cabinet."

I gaze up to a group of black prisoners on the second floor. They're leaning over the bars, smoking cigarettes and ranking us.

"Fresh fish," one of the younger, still bright-eyed ones mutters to the others.

"Fresh fish? Fresh fish? Naw dog, this is fresh SHRIMP," one of the others says, checking me out, his eyes running up and down my tanned, golden, ripped body.

The oldest one, who almost everyone in the prison both respects and fears, runs his eyes down my muscular body slowly. "No," he takes a drag of his cigarette. "Ain't fresh shrimp. More like a really expensive fresh STEAK. And I'm gonna douse it in my A1 sauce."

I wouldn't be too worried about getting pregnant, but I would be uncomfortable while being raped by Syphilis Stan.I am brought to my cell. I enter and the bars slam shut behind me. My cellmate is sitting naked on the cold floor reading Oprah's autobiography.

I clear my throat and introduce myself. "How did you get that book? Oprah hasn't even written an autobiography…"

He lifts his eyes from the book to me in the slowest way possible and with an intensity unlike any other.

And I'm sure my cellmate would tell all the other prisoners how good of a lay I was, and next thing you know, all the Spring Creek State Penitentiary and Correctional Facility would be lining up for their chance to put their balls in my baby-hole or my food-hole. Word would get around, and the prisoners' fellow gangbangers in the city would commit crimes just to get sent to the prison to gangbang me.

I would meet a lot of people—a man in prison for 8 to 10 years for a misunderstanding, a Mexican on death row because a judge decided to be a dick, an American Indian in for 32 months for something he didn't do, an African-American given life without parole for a parking ticket, a neo-Nazi in for 20 to 25 for "shut the fuck up and open your mouth."

They would all be unable to resist me and would rape me without mercy or condoms. Of course, I wouldn't be too worried about getting pregnant, but I would be uncomfortable while being raped by Syphilis Stan.

Eventually, I would meet my mentor, a smart middle-aged black man with more wisdom than an encyclopedia and more charm than a puppy. He would take me in as his student and his son, and I would rise above the childishness of prison politics, make genuine friends with the prison guards and even the warden, and I would go from a fresh fish getting raped every couple minutes to a vigilant fisherman, catching fresh fish and then raping those fish. Metaphorically speaking. I learned my lesson with the paraplegic panda.